When a Safety Net Becomes a Hammock

As caregivers, nurturers, and helpers, our instinct is often to protect the people we love from pain. We see someone struggling—a child, a friend, a colleague—and our first reaction is to step in, to make things easier, to catch them before they fall. But what if, in doing so, we aren’t catching them at all? What if we’re holding them back from the very lesson life is trying to teach them?

There’s a fine line between being a safety net and becoming a hammock. A safety net is there to keep someone from breaking when they fall—it offers support, not avoidance. A hammock, on the other hand, is comfort. It’s a place to rest, to sway gently away from the discomfort of growth. And when we turn ourselves into hammocks, we risk creating a kind of dependence that prevents others from learning resilience.

This truth is easier to grasp when we’re raising children. We understand that struggle is essential for their development—that frustration builds patience, mistakes foster problem-solving, and perseverance strengthens confidence. We call it “productive struggle,” and we know it’s a necessary part of growth. But when it comes to our peers, partners, or even the people we mentor, it gets harder. Our empathy can blur into over-functioning. Our love can start to smother instead of support.

The hard reality is that we never stop learning through struggle. Growth doesn’t have an age limit. The same way we wouldn’t rob a child of their learning moment, we shouldn’t rob adults—no matter how much we care—from theirs. When we intervene too much, we interrupt the natural process of learning and accountability.

For those of us with nurturing spirits, this realization can be painful. It goes against our nature to watch someone we love stumble, especially when we know we could make it easier. But sometimes the most loving act is restraint. Sometimes love looks like silence instead of advice, patience instead of solutions, and distance instead of closeness.

I’ve had to remind myself of this often—that my loving spirit can be both healing and harmful, depending on how I use it. True care requires discernment. It’s knowing when to step in and when to step back. It’s trusting that the people we love are capable of learning what life is teaching them, even if it’s uncomfortable to watch.

In the end, love isn’t about protecting others from pain. It’s about standing close enough to remind them they’re not alone in it—without taking the lesson away.

Would you like me to add a reflective closing paragraph that ties this back to your own experience as a mother and leader?